


monster- is that what i am?

by takethebreadsticksandRUN



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Tender - Freeform, but anyways, but jon can help, don't we all, i have never been more proud of something in my entire life, i promise it's worth the short read, idk how to spell, martin has low self esteem, our lovely favorite gay apacolypse couple, please read guys, short but amazing, the boys being soft, well melanie/georgie are great too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethebreadsticksandRUN/pseuds/takethebreadsticksandRUN
Summary: Martin does not have the greatest self esteem. Can his boyfriend help with that?ORself indulgent fluff bc i can so ha
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/ Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 145
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have no more words  
> it is eleven o clock at night  
> i have swim practice at the butt crack of dawn tomorrow  
> why am i like this  
> not beta read because I AM NOT WEAK  
> let me know what you think!!  
> xxx

Space. That’s what Martin was used to. The uncrossable distance between his room and his mother’s, the gap between his words and his heart, the emptiness between his lies, all comfortable in the nothing.

The Lonely was all the space he had created between himself and those he loved. The distance he never crossed, to keep himself safe or to protect them, he did not know.

But now he was doing this for Jon.

Jon would be safe. Safer without Martin.

~~~

With a rope and a bridge, Jon traversed chasms and pulled him out of the Forsaken.

“I was all on my own.”

Martin could not keep the tremor out of his voice. He was small, so small in that moment he might have disappeared if not for the grip Jon had on his hand.

“Not anymore.” He brushed his lips across Martin’s knuckles. “Let’s go home.”

~~~

Home, it turns out, is not what he imagined. The safehouse was comfortable, cozy, even, but still unexpected. Martin walked through the front door in a trance, unable to process anything other than the immediate sensations.

The floor creaked under his sandy shoes, a dusting of gold left in his wake.

The fresh air swept curls into his eyes and mouth, Jon smiling at him.

_Jon smiling at him_.

The distance Martin had forced between them loomed, larger than before, as the enormity of the situation hit him.

He had left, with no intention of going back.

Jon had followed, with no intention of letting him slip away.

The feeling was painful. _Is this what it feels like to be seen?_ he thought idly as he sat next to Jon on the couch. Jon watched him, almost hungrily, his expression softer than he had ever seen.

Martin let go of his hand, letting the space between their fingers grow. It was too much, this sudden surge of feeling burning and crashing. He took a deep breath, turning away.

“Martin?”

Even the way he said his name was beautiful.

“I can’t, Jon, I’m sorry…”

Martin faded into fog once more, escaping.

It was cowardly, to run away from what he had wanted for so long. But Martin no longer knew how to feel.

He came to sitting with his back against the bed.

_Jon deserves so much better. I should leave, spare him the trouble of being stuck with- stuck with me._

A light touch traced circles on the back of his palm.

“Are you alright?”

The concern in Jon’s voice was overpowering, inviting his confidence. Martin tried to throw up his walls again, trying to protect someone. Who, he did not know.

He settled for honesty. “No, not really.”

“Look at us,” he hummed, “a monster and a man who is forced into being alive.”

“Is that what I am now?” Martin’s voice broke. “A monster?”

Jon turned to him, cupping his jaw with a hand so tender it jabbed needles into his heart. “No,” he said firmly, “Never. I am. I brought you back, you were safe there, you were happy and now I’ve gone and mucked it all up because-“

“Because why?” Martin’s vision had gone slightly blurry, the edges of Jon’s frown softening.

“Because I love-“

Hello Jon

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of _two centuries_ of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why _does_ a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the _freedom_ , John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a _king_ of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure _I_ did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see _everything_ I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they _couldn’t_ succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all hose years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through _all_ the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do _not_ administer and preserve the records of fear, John. You _are_ a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, John?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your _destiny_. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear _all the way to your bones_.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If _it_ had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her _Slaughter_ adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed _power_. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no _actual_ danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been _very_ worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just _die_. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand _why_.

As it was, it was _just right_ , and once again, you came through with _flying colors_.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – _(sigh)_ – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that _idiot_ Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m _very_ sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… _restraining factors_ you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving _invaluable_ through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. _(cruel laugh)_ Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How _is_ Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned _that._

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are _marked_. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. Repeat after me.

_You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right._

** Come to us in your wholeness. **

**_ Come to us in your perfection. _ **

_Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and leads and **dies**!_

**_Come to us._ **

**_I – OPEN – THE DOOR!_ **


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The real ending to the fic, no Watcher's Crown here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aight so honestly watching y'all go absolutely feral in the comments of chapter one was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. i had wayyyy too much fun getting death threats and such, (one lovely person left a freaking essay in GREEK FOR ME) i should not have enjoyed it, but your rage was justified and i l o v e d i t  
> alas, i am extended a metaphorical olive branch, if you will. NOTE: this is NOT an apology. i do not regret my actions in any way ;)  
> but i have desecrated the walls of a holy temple, a safe place. in order to regain your trust, i give you... chapter 2- the real ending  
> enjoy!  
> xxx

“Because why?” Martin’s vision had gone slightly blurry, the edges of Jon’s frown softening.

“Because I love you,” he said softly, running a thumb across Martin’s cheekbones.

He gasped slightly, his stomach shifting as though he had missed the last step in a flight of stairs. “Jon-“ he began, not sure what he was going to say. Static filled his mind, but this crackling was not supernatural. No, this was a creation of his own fear. His terror at being known, at being _seen_ , attempting to block out any extension of emotion made in Martin’s direction. Something inside him still desperately clinging to the Lonely, grasping for the last shreds of comfort and gray nothing.

“ _I love you_ ,” Jon said again, breaking across Martin’s feeble attempts to speak. “I didn’t realize it soon enough. I didn’t know it until you disappeared, and I will regret that every second of every day for the rest of my life. But for now, I am not going to waste this. _I love you._ ”

The words were spoken with such intensity Martin shuddered, closing his eyes and allowing himself to lean into Jon’s touch. “I don’t-“

Jon drew back slightly, the words he whispered into the void still hanging in the air, hoping against hope the echo would be loud enough for him to hear. “What is it?” he asked gently.

“I don’t know how to feel anymore. I don’t know if I can, not after the Lonely.” A tear slipped out of his eyes, stinging with a pain that went beyond salt in his cuts. This release was not clean, not freeing like when chose to join Lukas in the Forsaken.

The words had festered in his stomach, boiling and simmering as he ignored them. But in the end, even gravity wasn’t enough to hold them down. Martin choked as he tried to swallow them, to take them back, but they would not return to the place from whence they came.

Jon said nothing, staring into his face without looking away in disappointment. Not leaving him, broken, on the floor, alone again.

“I want to feel again. I want-“

Another tear slid down his face, tracing rivers across his cheeks. Another tear. Another. Silently, words he could not say ran down his face.

Jon brushed a tear away with his thumb, still cupping his face with a soft touch. “What do you want, Martin?” he asked softly, the compulsion so gentle he could have resisted if he wanted to.

But he did not want to. “I want to feel the way I did before.”

The Eye was satisfied with the small sentence, but Jon was not. “How did you feel before?”

Martin could count his lashes, their faces so close their noses nearly brushed. The pressure of having someone staring at him like _that_ was not there, Jon’s gaze intimate. Revealing and comforting. His eyes were the soft brown of tree bark, gentle and life-giving when they chose to be.

“I-“ He shook his head. Some things could not be said, should not be said until they were ready. Martin leaned his forehead against Jon’s, hesitant.

He did not pull away. The knowledge that he was _there_ was grounding, slipping a small piece of himself back into the puzzle he had lost the box too. Still fumbling on how to put himself back together without the picture, one thing clicked into place.

“So much,” Martin murmured. “I felt so much.”

Jon drew back slightly, a terror seizing Martin’s heart. Of course, he was leaving, he couldn’t blame him for it. He was a mess, emotionally numb and traumatized. Who would want to stay with him? Nobody had, not before.

“Martin-“

He covered Jon’s hand with his own, a silent plea to _stay, please._ “Don’t go. I’ll try, I can-“

Promises, promises, all of them broken. Glass shards littered the graveyard of relationships, shining malevolent reminders of things Martin had failed to juggle.

He could feel Jon’s breath on his face, warm and somehow familiar. “Let me love you. The rest will come.”

“Okay,” he whispered, eyes closed, leaning into Jon’s body. Martin felt a hand under his chin, tilting his face towards Jon.

“May I?” he asked. Martin opened his eyes, staring into the brown eyes inches from his own.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes.”

Jon leaned forward, gently sealing his mouth with lips softer than the situation would have him believe. Martin lost himself in the sensation of the chaste kiss, letting the feeling grow infinitesimally.

Jon pulled away. “I love you, Martin, you need to hear it. To make up for all the times it should have been said and wasn’t. _I love you_.”

Martin could not reply, instead capturing Jon’s lips with his own once more.

One day, the feeling would come, and Jon would be with him when it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> i do not apologize for any of my actions, past or present


End file.
